


Undefined

by bell (bellaboo), bellaboo, usomitai (bellaboo)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-03
Updated: 2008-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:51:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/bell, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/bellaboo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/usomitai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After 3.11 “Words and Deeds,” Wilson tries to find his footing again in relation to House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undefined

**Author's Note:**

> Wingblossom was, as she tends to be, a sweetheart and beta-ed this.

It was an unspoken, undefined truce.

Overnight Wilson had the time to mull over the optional apology; it wasn’t definite. He wished that it were and that he could believe in it implicitly. But then again, trusting House had always been a risky business and the odds were with him, not the bettor.

On the other hand, the apology might be the one true thing that came out of his lies with Tritter. Knowing that in the heap of twine there might be a gold thread linked to himself made Wilson proud, somehow, for being worthy of receiving the one good action House had performed in recent memory.

Ultimately, Wilson decided to believe in it and in him. It wasn’t as if he were going to give up House anytime; that would require his own trip into rehab. And, like with his addict of a friend, he doubted that the treatment would cure him. Some things are for a lifetime. Wilson thought that he might as well make the best of it and accept the apology. A white lie could sooth the soul and prepare the spirit for the next disappointment.

Wilson was there at the jail the next morning, bearing Voldemort’s next supply of pain-killers. As he watched House gobble down the Vicodin posed as buprenorphine he refrained from comment because, at that moment, he understood that there are impulses that are bigger than us, that sweep us along and we cannot even stand up straight much less fight against it. House’s addiction had vanquished legal systems, friendly intervention, and certified rehabilitation institutions. Wilson could not think of what else could beat so mighty a force, and so he did not berate House nor did he plead.

And Wilson was tired of fighting with him. This was their chance to go back as to how things were. And Wilson wanted that. He could no longer stand the constant strain between them. If things did return to what they were, then he’d go back to trying to save House’s body and soul. But Wilson did not think that he had to start saving him right away. He wanted them to enjoy this brief truce. They could recover and lick their wounds before their next fall.

House, upon meeting Wilson, was grimacing and contracting his large frame into contorted shapes. That cell cot had probably been comfortable for only so long as the Vicodin’s first joyride washed through him; afterwards, the thin, soft mattress and the worn springs would have done him no favors. After guzzling his morning fix, House seemed more amenable, like a wet cat that had just come in from the rain and found itself a lit fireplace. Still soaked through and still miserable even if things were looking up.

House followed Wilson back to his car, and though they had yet to exchange a single word—perhaps House was just as worried as Wilson as to how long this fragile truce would hold under conversation and all the contradictions it brought, then again, more likely he was in no mood for chit-chat after a night in solitary confinement—Wilson knew that he should take him to the rehab center. Better fool Cuddy for as long as they could; better let her enjoy the benefit of that white lie.

The drive continued in silence, with House looking out the side window, and Wilson thought that he looked tired. No longer grimacing, yes, but exhausted and bone-weary and wanting nothing more than another gulp of Vicodin and his bed. He would receive neither wish anytime soon.

Wilson did not try to pull him in with monologue. He let House travel far away in his thoughts; he let him be. They’d been worlds apart for weeks now. Just because they had a truce did not mean that Wilson thought he should or could approach him. The distance would shorten on its own, with time. Let House come to him. Let House come to him.

When the short drive ended, House did not immediately unbuckle his seat belt. Wilson just turned they key, pulled it out, and he sat with him, silent, in the car, staring ahead but also staring at House through his peripheral vision. The Vicodin must not have kicked in yet, for he was still contracted and tired and distant.

Let House come to me, Wilson thought.

But the truce had only brought them back to a former state; it had not changed them or their relationship, and Wilson discovered, once more, like so many times, that House’s pull was a force stronger than any form of resistance Wilson had to offer.

He placed a hand on House’s shoulder, firmly, grasping.

Oh, you fool, Wilson lamented inside his mind. You fool.

House turned away from the window and looked at with him his usual intensity. He then looked down, and Wilson understood. Unbuckling his own seat belt, Wilson turned just so, just enough to wrap both arms around House and hugged him, hugged him for the first time in years and hugged him harder then he had anyone since before his last marriage had fallen apart. House did not move aside to rest his head against Wilson’s chest, and there they stayed, just like that, finding strength and support.

When House pulled back, Wilson let him go and walked him to the rehab center.


End file.
